


if you leave when i go (find me in the shallows)

by skeleton_twins



Series: scars [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, Hospitals, I promise!!!, Introspection, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, It's heavily implied, M/M, No Character Death, Reunions, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, and doesn't go through with it, but not actually attempted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-23 20:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21087614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_twins/pseuds/skeleton_twins
Summary: Remembering Eddie as he was–young and borderline neurotic–isn’t as cathartic as Richie hoped it would be. Everywhere he looks is another memory, another flashback of when they were young and happy and when Eddie was alive, and they were together.or Richie stays in Derry after Eddie dies.





	if you leave when i go (find me in the shallows)

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warning: suicidal thoughts and an abandoned suicide attempt (like i said in the tags it doesn't even get close to an actual attempt. i promise, but it could be highly triggering for some people and wanted to post a warning) there's also very minor self harm. 
> 
> if you think this fic could possibly be triggering for you, it might be for the best to skip it!

There’s blood splattered on the lens of his glasses.

Richie soaks the glasses, repeatedly scrubs the lens with his dirty shirt to no avail. Most of the dried blood comes off easily, but flakes of it have caught between the cracks. The glass is fragile, already fractured and he’s afraid to push too hard. A little more pressure and the glass will shatter.

He knows he should just pitch them, maybe should’ve tossed them into the quarry when he had the chance, but the thought of it leaves him sick to his stomach.

It’s ridiculous to think of tossing the broken glasses away as some sort of betrayal. Eddie would want him to throw the glasses away. If Richie squeezes his eyes shut he can hear Eddie bitching at him, _“What the fuck are you keeping those for? That’s disgusting. Do you know how many diseases you’re exposing yourself to right now?”_

“It’s your blood, jackass,” Richie mumbles to himself. He waits for Eddie to snap out an indignant response back. It never comes.

* * *

The rest of the Losers stick around for a while, but they’re intending to leave again. They gather in one of the booked hotel rooms, some sprawled over the bed, others spilling onto the floors. They discuss future plans, making arrangements late into the night. They all have lives to return to or new beginnings to make and so does Richie, but he makes no effort to rush back to his old life.

One by one they begin to leave Derry. First Bev and Ben, together–Richie’s happy for them, he is, but seeing them leave with their fingers entwined stings a little. Then Bill goes. It takes longer for Mike to leave. He has been tied down to this town for almost thirty years, it’s difficult to upend his roots here.

The day when Mike’s scheduled to leave, he hesitates. They’re shoving his packed bags into the trunk of Mike’s car when he offers, “You should come with me to Florida. Bill’s coming down for a visit. You should come too.”

Richie knows he would hate Florida–too hot and humid–but he hates Derry more. The offer is tempting. He wants to leap at the chance to get out of this fucking town, but he shakes his head.

No one wants to stay in a place like this, especially not Richie. There’s too much trauma here. Too many bad memories. He would leave. He would accept Mike’s offer and get the hell out of dodge, but it doesn’t seem fair that they all get to leave when Eddie’s stuck here forever.

He doesn’t want to leave Eddie behind.

* * *

Richie remains–for Eddie–even though walking down the streets of Derry feels like he’s standing barefoot on broken glass. He keeps remembering their old haunts. It all comes rushing back–the bad memories and the good. Mostly it’s just Eddie.

Richie walks down familiar paths that he had forgotten and there are ghosts walking alongside him. Memories that lurch forward, front and center stage, standing underneath the spotlight.

The memories are significant in a specific way–the same way a young boy would remember his first love. Things that most people would forget, like walking past the alleyway where Eddie had gripped his hand for the first time and tugged him down to hide, crouched behind a dumpster, from Bowers and his gang. He remembers how close they stood with their knees touching. Both of their chests heaving, struggling for air, after running so much. Eddie was peeking around the dumpster, keeping watch, and Richie should have been too, shouldn’t have been so distracted but Eddie’s hair was disheveled, a little strand of it falling between his wide brown eyes, and Richie couldn’t tear his eyes away from him. He walks past decrepit buildings, left abandoned and forgotten, but Richie remembers it even if no one else did, the way it looked before it closed down like the first time they went to the brand new ice-cream shop and Richie wasted most of his ice cream pushing it against Eddie’s nose just to hear him scream at him.

Remembering Eddie as he was–young and borderline neurotic–isn’t as cathartic as Richie hoped it would be. Everywhere he looks is another memory, another flashback of when they were young and happy and when Eddie was alive, and they were _together_.

Richie returns to the kissing bridge, he always does. He follows the footsteps of his own memory–of the young boy terrified, glancing over his shoulder making sure no one was watching him carve his lifelong secret into the wood of the bridge. The only time Richie got to reveal that confession.

He keeps recarving their initials deeper each time he comes, hoping that it won’t fade like everything else, in time, eventually does. Mike had said nothing lasts forever and Richie got enough of a taste of it to know Mike’s right, but he doesn’t stop hoping that maybe some things can be permanent.

The knife slips as he presses a little too deep into the wood. It slips and slices his thumb open. Richie hisses, dropping the knife as blood rushes to the surface. It reminds him of Eddie’s warm blood splashing onto his face, of how it poured from Eddie’s chest. Richie remembers how much blood there was, gushing out too quickly, much too fast. It soaked his hands as he desperately pressed down onto Eddie’s wound, trying to staunch the blood flow.

The cut on his thumb bleeds quick at first, but it starts to slow. Richie pushes down on it, causing more droplets of blood to appear on his skin. He knows if he cuts a little deeper, a little further down his arm, he could keep bleeding until his body is completely drained. That maybe if he’s lucky, he could see Eddie again.

Richie’s never had much luck.

* * *

Richie settles on the decision after a long night of avoiding sleep. He’s ignoring a lot of things: sleep, the buzz of his phone alerting him of unread messages. There is nothing in his dreams for him, other than nightmares, other than death–Eddie’s death replaying, deaths of the other Losers. He ignores the missed calls because he knows there is no one he wants to speak to–the only person he would give anything to talk to is dead.

Instead of sleeping, he stares at the cut on his thumb, the broken skin. The pain had been brief, initially stinging and sharp, but it only aches if he presses on it. So Richie does. Repeatedly. It hurts enough to push the pain of losing Eddie away–only for a moment. But it’s enough for now.

He knows in time it will heal and there’s a chance that maybe he will too, but his chest is broken, ripped apart the moment he watched the love of his life die right in front of him. His chest aches and Richie absently touches it, expecting to find a gaping hole, one that’s identical to the one that had killed Eddie, but his fingertips meet intact skin.

Richie rises before dawn. It’s still dark out when he leaves the hotel, dark enough for the stars to peek through before being erased by beams of sunlight breaking through the clouds. He stands still right outside the hotel, admiring the night sky just for a moment longer before he remembers climbing out of windows and stifling laughter as two young kids snuck out to stargaze.

He smiles at the memory, even though it’s painful. His eyes water, a lump forming in his throat, making it hard to swallow as he pulls his phone out. He doesn’t check his messages, he simply taps on the group chat with the Losers and sends a quick message:_ “I love you all.”_

Driving would be faster–Richie knows this–but he ignores the car keys in the back pocket of his jeans. Instead, he’ll walk the streets of Derry one last time. It takes most of the morning, but Richie walks until his feet hurt, until his calves are burning from it, until he arrives on Neibolt street.

The knife weighs heavy in the pocket of his hoodie, he feels it shift with every movement he makes, felt it grow heavier and heavier as he walked. He knows the Losers will be angry–upset–they’ve lost too much already. Eddie was ripped away from them, not by anyone’s choice. Stan was different. Stanley decided his own fate.

Guilt was never a stranger to Richie and it was never his friend. He has carried it, carried this secret, with him as long as he can remember–from the very first moment he set his eyes on Eddie Kaspbrak. One more stab of guilt isn’t going to cause any more damage than what’s already there, just twists the knife deeper in his gut.

Richie thinks that the remaining Losers will be okay though. Hopes so.

The atmosphere as he walks towards Neibolt house has changed since the last time he was here–arriving reluctantly and leaving anguished. Richie cannot describe the shift, but the air feels lighter, not smothering him with fear. He’s not scared of what he’ll find: debris and remnants of a haunted house.

Richie’s not afraid of the course ahead, of the fate he’s carving for himself, the disappearance of his future he’s stealing from himself. He’s not scared anymore. He’s going to be with Eddie.

* * *

There’s yellow tape strung around the house that gives Richie pause. He’s not expecting anything to be left. The house, for the most part, is gone. Everything was lost in the collapse: Eddie and crumbling walls caving into its very roots, to the little remains left of the house’s foundation.

“What’s going on?” Richie speaks out, eyes catching on figures wearing bright neon safety vests. They’re clearing out the rumble. There are two workers in total and an empty bulldozer sitting on the edge of the property.

One of the workers walks over, dragging a heavy bag full of debris with him. He stops right behind the tape, keeping them separated. “You didn’t hear?”

Richie swallows and shakes his head.

“Whole house collapsed.” The man looks over his shoulder at the ruins before squinting at Richie with hints of confusion wrinkling his face. “No one seems to even remember this house…Must have been a big explosion or something. Anyways, the city wants it torn down and gone.”

His voice breaks mid-sentence. It takes a few tries before Richie can get the question out, sounding a lot like Bill when he was younger. “Did–Did you find anything?”

“You mean did we find anyone?” The worker snorts, incredulous. “Believe it or not, we did. No idea how someone survives something like that. They took him directly to the hospital. Last time I heard, he was still there.”

Richie’s heart stops, stutters, and starts beating again. Wildly. Fluttering fast and slamming against his rib cage. Hard enough that he fears the bone will crack and leave tiny fractures behind. His knees buckle from under him, hands scrambling for some purchase and he’s grasping at the flimsy tape between that, it caves under slightly, threatens to give completely.

“You okay, man?” The worker eyes him warily. His hand outstretched towards Richie, hovering above his shoulder, almost as if to help, but he doesn’t make contact.

Richie nods. This time, he genuinely believes he will be.

* * *

The hospital is crowded. It’s noisy with the groans of ailing patients still yet to be seen by a doctor. It all becomes a hum, mere background noise, muffled by the ringing in his ears.

His limbs feel heavy and weak, almost as if he’s pushing through water, against the hard current as he makes his way to the reception desk. The nurse behind the counter repeats the same question he was asked earlier. “Are you okay, sir?”

Those sleepless nights were apparently starting to show. Richie hopes that he’s still awake. That he didn’t fall asleep somewhere along the way and dreamt up everything.

Richie laughs weakly and nods quickly, hoping to get the question out of the way. “Listen, uh, there’s a man they brought in. From the–the house on Neibolt street. I think it’s…He’s my–” Richie can’t get the words out.

The nurse seems to understand. “Ah, Mr. Kaspbrak?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t know exactly what the nurse is asking– if he’s inquiring about Eddie or if Richie, himself, is Mr. Kaspbrak, as in Eddie’s husband.

“Just down the hall to the left. Room 130,” the nurse tells him and points Richie down the hall.

He won’t remember this walk. It’s a blur the moment he steps into the corridor, the quiet hum of voices slipping in and out of his ears as he walks by patients’ rooms, peoples’ faces he passes are just a smear of indistinguishable features. Clarity arrives as soon as he’s standing outside Room 130, outside of Eddie’s room.

There’s no door, otherwise he’d knock, but that feels a little foolish. This is Eddie. His Eddie. There’s just a wide curtain drawn halfway, enough to block his view of most of the room. His breath is caught, trapped in his throat, waiting to exhale, as he tugs on it, pushing it aside.

A part of him is still convinced that this is some kind of fever dream, rapidly descending into some nightmare when all hope is yanked from under him. He’ll draw back the curtain and he’ll find Eddie’s corpse lying on the hospital bed, staining the white sheets bloody.

But Richie hears the machines beeping loudly, annoyingly. They wouldn’t bother hooking up a dead man to them. Hope flutters in his chest, a weak flame flickering once before igniting and sweeping through his bloodstream.

When Richie sees Eddie lying in that hospital bed, his heart stops.

“Eddie…” Richie breathes out. His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. His throat aches, raw and dry. He probably needs something to drink after walking so long this morning, but he ignores that. Eddie’s alive.

He looks rough, like he hasn’t been sleeping either with his eyes bloodshot and his hair flattened against his forehead. He looks healthy for the most part–skin flushed with color, not sickly pale like he remembers him last.

Richie thinks he looks beautiful.

“Rich? You’re alive?” 

It’s a total cliche but Richie swears to hear Eddie’s voice, to hear him speak, is like music to his ears. A seemingly forgotten melody, but the lyrics always come back to you like you haven’t stopped listening in the first place.

Richie’s vision swims, blurs with unshed tears in his eyes. He gives a watery laugh, “What the fuck does that mean, asshole. Of course, I’m alive. _You’re_ alive.”

He stumbles towards the hospital bed, towards Eddie. His knees give out on the way and he catches himself against the bed, but falls into it. Kneeling on the hospital floor and clutching Eddie’s hand, afraid to let go and Eddie will vanish like some ghost.

He breaks, falling apart as realization sets in. Sobs rack his body, causing his shoulders to hitch and tremble. Richie buries his face against Eddie’s leg, right where his hospital gown rides up his thigh, pressing his forehead against warm skin.

A delicate touch reaches out, fingers carding gently through his hair. Eddie’s voice is quiet, concerned. “Richie?”

Richie squeezes his lips together, struggling to stifle his cries, but the dam breaks the moment he hears Eddie whisper reassurances: _“I’m here. I’m alive, Richie.”_ Richie doesn’t realize how much time passes, how long he cries against Eddie’s leg, but after some time, he sniffles and pulls back.

Eddie makes a face at the damp spot on his grown and Richie laughs, “I fucking missed you.”

His face goes soft, and Richie can see he’s been crying too, his cheeks tear-stained that catches under the hospital lights.

“I missed you too.”

Richie swallows down all the confessions he’s been wanting to spill for years. He can wait. He can wait just a little bit longer. “What happened after you–?” He cuts himself off. Not able to say the words. “How the fuck are you alive?”

“I don’t–I’m not certain.” Eddie shifts uneasily. “I woke up and everyone was gone. No you. No Losers. No Pennywise.”

“He’s gone. We killed him.”

“Oh,” Eddie says.

Richie snorts, “What? Don’t tell me you’re going to grieve over some fucking clown–”

“No, you dick, I thought–When I woke up–” Eddie’s voice dips, sounding unsure, “I thought It got you guys. That it was just me left.”

“No we all got out, Bev, Ben, Bill, Mike, everyone except you. I tried, Eds, I really tried to get you out of there, but they wouldn’t let me. I didn’t want to leave you alone.”

Riche doesn’t admit how he would have stayed with him if he had the chance or the fact that he went back to the Neilbot house just to be with Eddie. He suspects Eddie might know anyways.

“It’s okay, Richie,” Eddie reassures him and Richie feels as if he can take a full breath again, as if some of the guilt eases off his chest. He’s holding Richie’s hand, the pad of his thumb rubbing across his knuckles absently. “Hey, what happened to your thumb?”

Richie lifts their laced hands together, pushing it closer to his mouth. “Wanna kiss it better?”

“Fuck no, that’s disgusting. I’m not going to kiss that. Do you know how many transmittable diseases I could catch from open wounds? Are you serious?”

“Aw, Eds,” Richie teases. God, he’s terribly missed teasing him like this. It’s only been a couple of weeks and twenty-seven years. “I promise to kiss your wound too, even if it’s unbandaged.” 

Richie starts to get up, pursing his lips and making kissing faces and noises towards Eddie’s waist before Eddie laughs and shoves his face away. “Gross. You don’t have to do that.”

“But what if I told you I _want_ to.”

“No, I mean there’s no wound to kiss.”

Richie pauses. “Wait…What?”

“Yeah,” Eddie shrugs, but his face pinkens as he tugs the collar of his hospital gown down his chest so Richie can see. There’s no gaping hole, no bloody bandages, nothing but a freshly pink scar.

“What the fuck.”

Richie doesn’t mean to touch it, doesn’t even realize his hand is reaching out until he hears Eddie’s soft little gasp when his fingertips meet skin–scarred but intact–just like himself.

“How the fuck is this even possible?” Richie murmurs. He doesn’t look up, keeps his eyes fixed on Eddie’s chest and his fingers tracing along the fresh scar.

“I think once It–It was _gone_ that all the damaged It did came undone or–or maybe it was about belief. If you believe it’s true or something–I don’t fucking know. The doctors can’t explain it either,” Eddie tells him, he doesn’t push Richie’s hand away, merely covers it with his own.

Richie considers Eddie’s theories, it did make some sense, even if nothing ever made sense from the beginning. All the logic and rationalism ingrained and taught unravels after battling it out with an evil clown from space _twice_. The residents of Derry had been in some kind of daze, never questioning the strange things, never really seeing what was lurking underneath the streets. Maybe with Pennywise’s death, the spell has finally been lifted.

Eddie continues, “I’ve been here for weeks under observation, had them run all the scans: x-rays, ultrasounds, an MRI. There’s no internal damage. Just the scar.”

“You’ve been here the whole time?” Richie asks. “Why the fuck didn’t you call one of us?”

Eddie frowns, “Because I lost my phone in some dirty ass clown lair, you fucking asshole, and I didn’t know anyone’s number off the top of my head. And–”

“And?”

Eddie tears his eyes away from Richie’s looking off to the side of the room. “And I thought everyone else was dead. There really wasn’t any hurry to get out of here.”

“I should probably call them.”

“They’re not here?”

This time it’s Richie avoiding eye contact.“No, they left soon afterward, but uh–I couldn’t leave without you.”

“Oh…” Eddie murmurs softly. He doesn’t ask Richie to elaborate, which Richie is grateful for. Richie assumes that even if he wasn’t aware of the exact details, Eddie at the very least understands him, understands why he couldn’t leave this town just like Eddie couldn’t leave this hospital.

There’s an incessant beeping from the hospital machines surrounding them, that frays Richie’s nerves, almost taunts him with every second beep. He fears that if he listens closely he might hear his own name in the consistent rhythm. _Beep Beep, Richie._

Thankfully, Eddie breaks the silence. “Guess I can leave here now.”

“Are you sure you don’t want them to run any more tests on you? What’s the risk statistics of–”

“Shut the fuck up, Richie,” Eddie says with his mouth curved around the corners, in a soft little smile, just for Richie and no one else. It nearly knocks the air out of Richie’s lungs. “Will you take me home?”

Richie doesn’t know where home is anymore, whether Eddie means here in Derry back at the hotel or New York, or even California with Richie.

“Yeah,” Richie agrees. “Anywhere you want to go. You don’t have to stay here for another fucking minute if you don’t want to, Eds.”

He knows that there’s comfort in hospitals for Eddie, that to a certain degree he feels reassured, safe in the hands of doctors. But Richie remembers the constant hospital visits his mom forced Eddie into when he was a kid. Every week, another check-up.

Richie forgets about the knife weighing down the pocket of his hoodie. Richie pulls it out from his pocket much to Eddie’s confusion. He’ll confess to Eddie eventually why he’s carrying it around–to recarve their initials in aging wood. But for now, he turns his hand over, his palm open and facing towards the ceiling, holding out his hand for Eddie.

It takes a few minutes before Eddie realizes what Richie’s asking for, but he finally places his wrist in Richie’s grasp. It’s a quick cut, slipping the blade of the knife under the hospital bracelet looped around Eddie’s wrist, a little tug and it falls apart into two pieces.

Eddie stares at his wrist, at Richie’s loosely curled fingers around it, still holding onto him. Richie brings it to his mouth and presses a soft kiss against the bare skin. Eddie flushes brightly.

“Come here,” Eddie orders, scooting over and patting the side of his hospital bed. The blush is still spreading, across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

Richie crawls into bed with him, careful and tentative, a little nervous that too much movement will cause Eddie pain. It’s an awkward, tight fit, Richie squeezing in between the hospital railing on the side of the bed and Eddie’s warm, _alive_ body, but neither one of them particularly minds.

The railing digs into his lower spine, but Richie ignores it, shifting onto his side, until their bodies are flush against each other, and he can see Eddie’s face. Their legs tangle together easily, not skipping a beat.

The strings of his hospital gown are tied loosely around his shoulders, almost coming undone, one little tug from Richie and they come apart. He swallows as he gently eases the material down Eddie’s chest, once more revealing the scar.

Richie dips his head, ignoring the soft little gasp that slips from Eddie’s mouth. He presses his lips against the start of it, between Eddie’s sternum, and works his way downwards, kissing every inch of the scar.

Eddie’s chest heaves under his mouth, “Richie, what the fuck?”

He doesn’t sound angry, just breathless.

“I made a promise,” Richie murmurs and presses one last kiss against the scar before he lifts his head.

Eddie’s brown eyes flicker towards him. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“Yeah, cause I kissed it better. You’re welcome.”

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Eddie scoffs, but he leans in closer until their mouths brush together. It’s a small quick peck and they pull away, only for a moment to regain their breaths. Their noses bump together as Eddie shifts forward again, capturing Richie’s lips in a second kiss.

Richie’s hands rest against Eddie’s chest, fingertips along his scar, feeling Eddie’s heart race underneath his fingers.

For now, the scar is bright, but in time it will dim, paling white, just like the cut on Richie’s thumb will. Together, they will heal.

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot thank Becca enough for all the help with this fic. Many endless thanks and gratitude to her for taking the time and fixing grammar errors and just being an amazing wonderful person. i love you!!! <3


End file.
